Page 124
“Junk food for the brain.” Tarquin’s hand reached over her shoulder, snatching the magazine from her grasp. He joined her on the bench. “A mind is a terrible thing to waste.”
“I guess you’d know.”
He dismissively glanced at the page Alex had open and slapped it down beside him. “I came early to shop.” He opened a red plastic Foyles bag. “See, I read more than Dr. Seuss.”
Alex checked out his stash—a memoir about the guy behind PayPal, a Steve Jobs biography. “You surprise me—no football bios, no trashy thrillers, and…the updated Star Wars encyclopedia? Really?”
“I’m a massive Star Wars geek. My dad hired actors to play Han Solo and a Wookie for my tenth birthday party. Tread carefully, I’m skilled at Jedi mind tricks.”
Alex snorted and stood up. Following her cue, Tarquin rose to his feet, too.
“I know who was in that magazine. Breakups are hard enough, but spotting your famous ex everywhere? Jeez.” Tarquin steered her back with his free hand. “No magazines on my watch.”
“And Jedi mind tricks will make that happen, Geek Boy?” Her glaring eyes, shooting over her shoulder, told him to remove his hand from her back—immediately. “Obi-Wan would be horrified. You should put those skills to better use.”
“Oh, I am. You’ll see.” He swung his bag of books and smiled into the sun and gentle breeze. “There’s no better place than London on a day like today.”
“Is that why you moved back? Missed it too much?”
“No. Things in New York ran their course. I took advantage of everything it had to offer, but after almost three years, it was time to come home. It’s funny—I felt most like a Londoner when I was there. All the differences, like their lack of salt-and-vinegar crisps? It’s the only flavour I like. Couldn’t find them anywhere.”
Alex’s eyes followed a tour boat down the Thames. “I could say the same about Twizzlers here.”
“Those awful sweets? The red chewy ropey things?”
“They’re delish, candy snob.”
“Have you tasted the chocolate ones? A shop in Times Square sells them.”
“That’s just wrong.” Alex shook her head. “It’s strawberry or nothing.”
“Who’s the candy snob now?”
“I like what I like.”
“You’re too picky.”
“Says the dude who only eats one flavour of crisps.”
“Touché.” He laughed. “You figure out what’s important when you’re away, don’t you think?”
Alex shrugged. “I guess.”
“My dad took us travelling during most school breaks. I’ve skied all over Europe, surfed the Australian coast. I’ve had a lot of opportunity to visit other cultures and learn from them, but no place compares to London.” He glanced across the river at the Shell Mex House’s large clock and back to Alex. “Have you travelled much?”
“Nowhere exotic or beachy—I hated sunbathing, growing up in Florida. I lived in Atlanta during college, and I’ve visited New York, Chicago, New Orleans, Dublin, Venice, and a few places around England—”
The slamming of polyurethane on cement drew Alex’s attention away from Tarquin. A crew of skateboarders were showing off their noseslides and grinds in the graffiti-covered undercroft of the Southbank Centre.
Tarquin’s grin grew twice its normal size. “My people!”
Alex scoffed.
“What?” His phone buzzed in his pocket, but he ignored it.
“Everything about you screams polo, rowing for Cambridge, and reading poetry to swooning debs. Skateboarding? Yeah, right.”
“Sorry to burst your bourgeois bubble, but I hate polo, and I can’t row for toffee. Poetry? Not if I can help it. I did go to Cambridge, but I ran cross-country, played footy, lived at the skatepark, and DJ’d, but I never got my kicks riding a polo pony. I’m more a coasteering, bouldering, snowkiting guy…”
